


not white

by cool_potato



Series: don't blame ink he's just emotionally retarded [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Outertale (Undertale), Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bad English, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Angst, Gay Panic, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Ink, Ink!Sans - Freeform, M/M, Nightmares, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Panic Attacks, Please Kill Me, This Is STUPID, Unreliable Narrator, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, cinnamon roll ink, error!sans - Freeform, how work links in this site, i tired(((, ink feels, inkerror - Freeform, its ink's pov, kinda???, tsundere error, we dunno what feels error, where's my coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23752105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cool_potato/pseuds/cool_potato
Summary: ink sits down again and puts his head wearily in his hands. why does he have nightmares? he is soulless, nothing should affect him so much. the soulless are not afraid.the soulless don't feelso much.
Relationships: Ink/Error
Series: don't blame ink he's just emotionally retarded [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710994
Comments: 5
Kudos: 99





	not white

**Author's Note:**

> ugh im sorry english is not my native language soooooo i could make some mistakes???? don't blame me i just want auditorium fkfkfjfkkfk

_white. everything is white. he doesn't feel it. devastation. white._

_where are his emotions? where are his memories? who is he and what was he created for? what is he?_

_white-white-white, for the duration of the entire view, only a dazzling whiteness. is it empty?_

_he knows he should be scared. but the white in his chest is not the soul, the white is the ribs and infinity, white is one and all, white is he. white?_

_it's hard to feel without a soul. there is only boundless space and deafening silence, pressing on the walls of the skull. it should be scary. he must be terrified.  
he's devastated._

_why is he here?_

_white-white-white, he knows that this whiteness will one day eat him, dissolve him, turn him into a single snow-white whole, white-white-white, and nothing will save him, because there is nothing here, but he is not afraid, because—_

* * *

ink wakes up with a soft sigh, with a sharp click of knocking bones as he sits up abruptly. where is he? he– he's not—?

the ceiling is not white. not white, not white. he's in his own house, and he needs to calm down. he would never return to that hopeless skeleton in infinite space.

ink is trembling. his breath comes out ragged and weak, the remnants of the night's desolation chill his ribs, but he is not in white. he thinks: the red blanket - one, blue wall - two yellow pillow - three, brown floor under foot - four, multi-colored carpet next to the bed - five, dark-blue ceiling like outertale's sky - six.

when the panic calms down, ink closes his eyes and leans back, thinking about what kind of pupils he has this time. a rhomb and an ordinary oval? stars? after the nightmare, they must have–

he doesn't want to think about white, but white still comes. he sees white as if in reality, he sees white and can not breathe, because he is again as if without colors, again without emotions, again empty.

ink opens his eyes, counting colors again. rainbow. think about rainbow: red, orange, yellow, green, azure, blue, purple. see? no white.

the ceiling resembles the sky, but the real outertale in better times. maybe he should take a walk. he thinks he won't be able to sleep again until morning.

ink sits down again and puts his head wearily in his hands. why does he have nightmares? he is soulless, nothing should affect him so much. the soulless are not afraid.

the soulless don't feel _so much._

ink repeats this to himself as a mantra, tying his scarf around his neck and tucking a notebook into his belt. (he resolutely does not think of the days when his thoughts about white moved him in self-destructive directions. he has learned his lesson.) ink runs the brush across the floor and disappears in the paint.

the sky of genocidal timeline outertale as brilliant as usual. there is no white. only a vast expanse filled with hundreds and thousands of stars. ink relaxes his tense shoulders, but freezes as soon as he sees that he is not alone.

error sits with his back to the ink and knits something with his threads. ink absently notices that the strings are not only blue, but also other colors. even whi–

ink looks away and wonders if it's necessary to report his presence at all. error, who looks peaceful and calm, and a deep desire to see his enemy in a friendly environment, creeping out from somewhere under the ribs, decide everything for him. so ink sits down behind the destroyer as quietly as possible and takes out his notebook.

in the twilight of outertale leaves sketchbook gray-yellow, and ink thanks the lighting for this effect. he wasn't ready to face the white so soon after his nightmare. by the way, why does it frighten him so much?

ink bites the tip of his pencil thoughtfully and frowns as he analyzes his emotions. recently, it has become... as if... it's as if he just licked the paint off the lid, which makes the feelings muted, but still there. which is strange, because today he has not yet drunk the paint, and in his chest already swirling horror mixed with quiet joy at the view. what does it mean? where does this come from?

ink shakes his head. it's weird, yes, but as long as it doesn't interfere with his work, it doesn't matter. (maybe one day he will live as if he has a real soul). foolish thought.  
the pencil draws straight lines with a barely audible creak, but the noise of error's glitches drowns out even the rustle of turning pages. it's funny. ink forces a smile and for the first time feels unable to do it right away. how squalid.

ink reaches for the yellow bottle, but his hand finds nothing. where– where are his paints– _how the hell_ could he forget them–

"oh, shit!" the exclamation comes out of clenched teeth independently, startling both ink and error. the latter shudders violently, increasing the noise of interference, and shoots threads in the direction of the intruder. ink dodges easily and almost laughs. but there is no yellow.

his colors are _not here_.

error's eyes narrow, and his glasses glisten faintly in the starlight. ink doesn't look. how could he forget the colors, how could he– he didn't think his memory was _so_ bad–

the panic comes again in waves, unexpectedly strong, unexpectedly sudden, and ink finds himself gasping and shivering, unable to move. he thinks he is going to be sick, but the ink doesn't come, and he freezes in an intermediate state. panic sticks in his throat, he can't breathe, and his vision goes dark.

ink has no idea where these animal fear and wild terror come from, but they are there. ink may have forgotten the organizer before, but it never caused such a violent reaction.

maybe, he thinks, maybe it's the remnants of a nightmare and the fear of being empty again. the awareness of panic only makes it worse, and the colors blend in front of his eyes. ink shakes and rattles his bones. he's scared.

he's terrified.

he must not, he repeats to himself, he must not, how can he be terrified without a soul? but he's scared to death and afraid of becoming empty, like–

ink sees a flash of blue, black and red at the edge of his vision. it's beautiful. ink is trying to focus on colors. black bones. red eye sockets. blue scarf and blue stripes on the cheeks. breathe, ink, breathe.

"damn it, rainbow idiot, breathe, breathe, please, breathe for all your stupid alternate universes, inhale, exhale–" ink hears a trembling voice as if through cotton wool. red. black. blue. yellow is added to them, and now it's less scary when there are more colors.

ink listens to the voice and breathes. inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale. whose voice is that?

...error's, probably. ink closes his eyes and slowly exhales, stopping trembling. how stupid. a panic attack for virtually nothing. error would probably make fun of him for it every time they met.

well, it sucks what to say.

"-nk? ink! ink, are you okay?" ink raises his head and looks at error. he is on the verge of a panic attack, glitches cover most of his body, he is shaking. ink nods weakly and tries to force a smile. he hopes that something worthwhile has come out. error relaxes his shoulders in relief and exhales, "thank void, i'm going to sca—"

ink observes with light humor the sea of lags that appeared after the beginning of the sentence, and the loading bar above error's head. the download started twice and failed twice, until it finally reached 100%. error jerked and fell to the ground, panting.

"what were we talked—" he shakes his head and sits down. "nevermind. forget it. just don't do it in front of me again, or i'll open a portal under you to the nightmere gang in heaventale."

ink nods again. he doesn't want to talk, and the silence warms his throat. warm is good. he closes his eyes.

it's stupid, he knows, to limit his vision near the enemy, but ink doesn't have the strength for battle, and error looks completely empt– tired.

"what are you doing here?" after a moment of silence, error asks. there are echoes of anger in his tone, but they are too faint to hurt. ink shakes his head and waves his hand without opening his eyes. he doesn't want to talk right now.

error seems to understand. or just doesn't want to communicate more than usual, who knows? anyway, it doesn't matter. ink opens his eyes and looks away. error returns to his seat, but doesn't turn his back. ink knows that error have no reason to trust, they are eternal enemies and all that. it's still a bit of a shame.

ink pushes away the unpleasant feeling and focuses on the colors. he still has a disgusting cold in his stomach, nausea and shortness of breath, and instead of panic, strong anxiety, but this is good, this is normal. everything is fine. he will be fine, and one day he will be able to think about white without the psychological blow of the breath. ink is watching.

error sits sideways, not looking in his direction, focused on knitting. spokes made of bones are actually quite a successful design move, although obviously banal for a skeleton. ink likes bones.

the ink himself, to be honest, is not a skeleton at all, not bones, but ink, a pile of compressed ink held together only by magic. or something else that ink doesn't know about at all (not the soul). anyway, it doesn't matter. he's never been interested in it, so it probably doesn't matter.

a dull jolt of fear again permeates ink's bones, and although he is not sure where the panic is coming from, ink focuses again on the colors.

error's skull is black. it almost merges with the dark sky of outertale, but the blue lines on the cheeks and red eye sockets work as a damn good focus. ink inclines his head. error's scarf is blue. in fact, it seems to be closer to gray-blue, but in the semi-darkness, the colors are distorted and mixed. ink can only guess and try to remember.

error knits with her luminous threads. they are neon, bright, almost blinding, azure. they look good contrasting with the black cheek, and ink's artist feels satisfied. that's not bad. it's good.

it's strange.

ink admires the enemy, the one he should hate, but here they are, sitting on the same island in the same universe and not even arguing.

maybe it's because ink is too tired. maybe it's because error doesn't care, but everything is quiet, silent, and only a faint hum and hiss of static cuts through the silence... in fact, it's just great.

ink likes it, likes the friendly silence, likes the soft grunt of glitches and the shimmer of starlight on other's bones.

 _'damn it,'_ ink suddenly thinks and almost stops breathing. _damn it, I love him so much.'_

this is unexpected, hits a bag on the head, because ink most of the time does not even feel, replaces emotions with colors, and this thought– well. this thought is painful and false from a creature without a soul.

ink strangling the whining. it's not fair, it's not fair, why do others have souls, and he's one of a kind, a soulless bastard? ink closes his eyes tightly, buries his face in his lap, and pulls his legs as close to him as possible. this is his tactic when he is upset – become smaller, become more inconspicuous, and maybe the problems will go away. ink doesn't know where he got this tactic from in the first place, but if it works, who is he to say no?

how can he even love? how can he feel something not by choice, without drinking the bottle sip by sip, without thinking about the situation and the required emotions? how can he think that he has a right to something as bright as love? what right had he, a dark, depraved, filthy creature, to think about it? he's fake.

it's just not fair.

ink stifles the sob that tries to escape from his throat and hopes it wasn't very loud. ink's breathing is ragged, and it looks as if someone has stuck a metal pin in his chest. it hurts. ink stifles another sob.

error doesn't respond. maybe he really can't hear, maybe he's pretending, but that's for the best, ink thinks, he's not ready yet, he doesn't need to see me any more than he does in battle. he hates me, he–

ink doesn't finish the sentence and takes a deep breath. come on, relax. inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale.

it hurts to love, ink thinks. it's like alien's hand on your (non-existent) heart, it's like someone pushing your ribs apart, breaking them, and then gently gluing them back together. from love in the throat a hot lump, and in the chest a fluffy warmth and happiness. love makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time, and maybe ink will do it later. not now. (never).

ink doesn't think he deserves to love. ink is sure that he doesn't have the right.

he gets up slowly, his head spinning, but it's all right. everything is fine, he is smiling again, now he needs to meet with his friends, everything is fine. excellently. (and if his smile is a little cracked around the edges, there's no one here to worry about.)

"see you next time, error," ink warms up, stretching his arms above his head, and adjusts his scarf. his voice is a little squeaky from the effects of a panic attack, and maybe he should– "thank you! and i'm sorry about that. you know," ink waves his hand as if he doesn't mean _to fall apart in front of you, panic, lose my shit, and scare you into rebooting_. "i hope we will meet in more favorable circumstances next time!"

error looks up from his knitting for a moment and nods dryly, but almost immediately returns to his work. ink adjusts the scarf again - a nervous habit - and takes the broomie, ignoring the urge to fall to the ground and never get up again. (he's exhausted and scared, but that's okay, he's had worse, he can handle it.)

ink goes, slips in a puddle of brilliant ink (runs away), an only error remains in the outertale.

he–

he looks down at the ground where ink had been sitting just a few moments before, and sees his portrait against the stars, neatly drawn in black pencil.

(and if he always carries it with him in his jacket all the time– well. this is only his business).

**Author's Note:**

> https://pin.it/7a8V2UQ  
> idk how works link so???? yep fanart made by myself


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